


In the Noontide

by Ladoga



Series: and taken to sacred service [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fingering, Ice Play, Kink: sensation, Molestation, Multi, Sensory Deprivation (Blindfolds), Sexual Slavery, Valinor, at a party, extra orifice, mention of non con body modification
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-24
Updated: 2018-06-23
Packaged: 2019-04-27 05:10:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14418387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladoga/pseuds/Ladoga
Summary: And this is the 'Maitimo was a sex slave of the Valar (and Maiar)' part.Valinor.





	1. Banquet

**Author's Note:**

> Tag note: not actually a blindfold, it's magic, but it's specifically mentioned as replacing one.

He can’t see. Sometimes he wears a blindfold, dark cloth tied over his face blocking out light, but this isn’t one of those times. This is a festival, and no reason to hide part of his face from sight, and so one of the Powers came before, and touched him, and now he can open his eyes if he wishes and they will show him nothing.

He isn’t tied down. He would be if it was needed, and he knows this perfectly well, and so there is no need for them to actually do it, or to inhibit or diminish his reactions in that way.

He lies, or is laid out, on the table, face down and arms folded under his head. (‘Ass in the air’, he’s heard someone say, and he can’t - dispute the accuracy of that, really. He - his body - is a part of the festival, here for them to enjoy, and that is - a part that many have enjoyed - and, so.)

He can’t always hear them approaching. Sometimes he can - some of the Ainur take concrete-enough form, walk so he can hear footsteps. And some of them do not, and it is his first hint of their presence when hands or something else runs over him, or comments sometimes, or laughter.

 

Someone has come with ice. Ice, and not a body made to feel like it, probably, because it melts against his skin, drops of water winding down to the table. They run it over his back - he doesn’t know who it is, doesn’t know if it’s just one or others watching. He shudders at the sensation, the lines of cold he can’t predict drawn over him. Someone does laugh…

It moves to his arms, and now he can feel a body’s warmth next to him, the touch of a finger for a moment behind the ice. (Someone taking a form? Someone passing the ice on?) 

Other hands thread into his hair, wrap it around themselves and twist and tug. He muffles sound into his hand - not too hard, enough to show he’s  _ doing  _ it, not enough that they actually can’t  _ hear _ .

Whoever it was at his hair departs again. More hands - other hands, the same hands, both - find his buttocks now. Caress his thighs below, stroke and cup. Someone pinches him - once, again. He flinches, jumps a little. Reminds himself not to stifle a whimper. 

Fingers probe between his legs. Find the entrance the Powers made there for that, dip inside. He jumps again; doesn’t have a chance to even quite think about biting down on his hand. His legs snap together, muscles suddenly tense - 

_ Now, your Highness, is that any way to behave?  _ It’s less words than an impression in his mind. A sharp slap conveys about the same impression. “‘m sorry, I’m-” he swallows, tries to wet his lips - “I - apologize.” He spreads his legs again, wider now, ankles toward the corners of the table. Isn’t sure if to expect bonds, but none come. Just a lighter touch to where the slap had landed - and then fingers again. 

They return to delve inside - not much deeper, but longer, exploring the walls of it. Some other touch circles the very entrance. Fingers withdraw. They, or someone else, goes deeper, prods farther inside of him. 

The next one doesn’t wait for a withdrawal - more fingers join the ones already inside, then more again. He whimpers, tries to make himself not bite down on more - it hurts, the stretch of it, filled more than it was meant to be. 

More caresses, lighter slaps. He shivers against the table as they keep moving there, keeps his legs carefully open as still more fingers push into him with the rest. Sharp pain again at the entrance, and jolts that seem to run up and down him; another slap (he can imagine them watching his skin redden…) and the ghost of a touch again. 

 

They finish. Someone strokes wet fingers down the inside of his thighs. Someone touches his lips, and he sucks, whatever taste it is the Powers chose to give that part of him when they made it. More caresses, almost gentle, lingering again. 

And then nothing. The air feels suddenly cooler, sound changed, muffled by distance. He keeps his legs apart, and tries to pillow his head better on his arms, and reminds himself, again, not to try to stop the shaking that goes through him.

He waits.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for a prompt off a promptlist. [Prompt list (manhandling)](http://rp-memes-atyourservice.tumblr.com/post/175040667463/manhandling-symbol-starters). Prompt:
>
>> Anonymous asked: Could I request grab by the back of the neck and/or pin down with arms behind back for court elf Maitimo, in dark!valinor?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Republishing here.)

“So lovely today.”  
  
A moment ago, there was no one behind him, no one near him on any side. Just the chair he sits on, and the table he set his sketchpad on, a good angle to the column he attempts to capture in charcoal tones.  
  
Now a hand grips the back of his neck, not hard but firm, a voice, pleasant-toned, sounds near his ear. Like solid presence suddenly condensed out of the air. Which, of course, they can do. He stills his hand, sets the charcoal carefully down.  
  
“Thank you, your grace.” He waits for signals - a push, a pull, touch solidifying somewhere else on his body.  
  
“The garden is also lovely, I must say. But, not quite the right place.” There’s a smile in the voice, indulgent. He gets the nudge he waits for, makes to rise and turn -  
  
“Oh, ah, ah, not that. Not a good form for you to see right now, sweetheart.” He bows his head slightly.  
  
“Thank you, your grace.” Rises without turning, takes the sketchbook, edges carefully around the chair. The touch stays with him, warm and in every way like the feel of a hand. He is careful not to think beyond that, not to picture beyond that. Another slight push, barely extra pressure, gives him direction.   
  
“Come now, sweetheart.” He goes. Through the garden and the halls - the hand stays steady as he walks through white marble. Diverts his eyes from mirrors. (In the third hall another elf passes them by. Maitimo watches as his eyes go up past where the top of his head is. As they widen. Smiles at the elf, as he only always does. Wonders maybe for a moment but does not think what it is that makes it safe for the other elf to look but not for him.)  
  
The hand lets him go when they are through the door of a room, when the door is shut behind them. (He still does not turn, keeps his eyes on the bed on the other side, or down.)   
  
“You won’t need the book here, sweetheart, I think. Or what is under your robes.” He puts the sketchbook and charcoal down, undresses. Has the last piece of cloth just out of his hand when movement takes him so suddenly his breath leaves him, finds him face down on the bed in an instant like wind.  
  
What feels like the same hand is now between his shoulders, pushing him into the sheets. Another gathers his wrists together, holds them behind him. Not forceful nor overly tight; still firm and warm like the mattress under him. Unyielding as stone, he knows, if he pulled against them. He does not.  
  
What he might think were warm lips (perhaps they are) speak at his ear again, closer now, almost touching.   
  
“Be good for me now, sweetheart.”  
  
“It is my privilege to be, your grace.”  
  
  
  
He is.


End file.
